


Forgotten Paperwork and Socked Feet

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [10]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Suicide Attempt, Young Malcolm Bright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26929576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: Prompt No 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEEDBlood Loss| Internal Bleeding |Trail of BloodOnce he starts looking, he can'tnotsee it.A blood trail leads from just inside the kitchen to the bathroom down the hall, smaller drops that become disturbingly large pools by the time they reach the door.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947595
Comments: 9
Kudos: 66
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Forgotten Paperwork and Socked Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends, this story deals with the attempted suicide of a child, so if that's a trigger for you please, please skip this one.
> 
> If you're thinking about hurting yourself, please contact your national crisis service or suicide prevention hotline. 
> 
> There is help out there, and you don't have to deal with this alone.
> 
> Love to all.

Gil has seen the worst of what humanity has to offer. He's shown up at crime scenes that were grisly enough to haunt his dreams for weeks after. He's helped the detective squad investigate cases that have made his stomach churn when faced with the depravity of the human mind. He's been shot at, stabbed, and beaten while trying to apprehend a suspect.

But he's never been more afraid than on that idle Thursday afternoon, when he pops home to pick up some paperwork he'd forgotten on his kitchen table that morning.

He plans on being in and out of the house in less than a minute, and, up until a year or two ago, he would have just kept his shoes on and run in to grab the folder. Jackie broke him of that habit shortly after they moved in together, though, when she jokingly threatened to return his engagement ring if he didn't quit leaving shoe prints on the hardwood.

And so he toes off his shoes with a bemused smile — Jackie isn't even home and he can't seem to sneak on through — but doesn't bother removing his coat as he heads down the hall to the kitchen.

The floors are dark enough that he doesn't see it at first, but his socked feet slip on something wet as he leaves the kitchen, folder in hand. A quick windmill of his arms keeps him from falling, thankfully, and as soon as he finds his balance, he glances down to see what made him slip.

Once he starts looking, he can't _not_ see it. 

A blood trail leads from just inside the kitchen to the bathroom down the hall, smaller drops that become disturbingly large pools by the time they reach the door.

His heart slams in his chest as he drops the folder and instinctively reaches to un-holster his gun, holding it in front of him as he silently stalks forward, terrified of what he might find.

The frightened voice in the back of his mind that constantly worries about Jackie whispers worst-case scenarios of her coming home early and walking in on a robbery. The part of his brain that's always on the job wonders if some junkie broke in looking for a place to get high and had a bad trip. 

There's not a single thought in his head that prepares him for the truth.

He turns the corner with his gun raised and his heart stutters to a grinding halt at the sight, his breath shuddering out of him in a single whoosh. 

Malcolm.

He's supposed to be at school. He isn't even due to visit for another two and a half weeks (Gil was going to surprise him with tickets to a Yankees game when he arrived. They're in the nosebleeds, but he figured Malcolm wouldn't mind. The kid seems happy — or, as happy as he gets — just to spend time with Gil. And Gil feels the same way about the shy thirteen year old.)

Instead, the kid that saved his life a scant few years ago is on the floor, slumped against the vanity in his bathroom, ever-increasing pools of blood under each hand where they lay limp at his sides. He's too pale, too still, and Gil wants to vomit.

He shakes off the fear and steps over Malcolm to grab some towels from the cabinet on the other side of the room, trading his gun for his radio as he goes, calling for an ambulance to his location in rushed and broken sentences.

He drops down next to Malcolm, tossing the extra towels on the kid's lap as he wraps the first one around the deep laceration that bisects the inside of his left arm, starting at the wrist and traveling halfway up his forearm. The pool of blood beneath that hand is the largest, so Gil assumes it's the more pressing of the two wounds (and the fact that this isn't the first suicide attempt Gil's come across means he understands that it's because the kid is right-handed and would've cut the left arm first, that he would've been weakened by the first cut and gone shallower with the second, and that knowledge causes his stomach to twist uncomfortably).

"What did you do, kid?" Gil whispers around the lump that's forming in his throat. He has to blink back the tears that blur his vision to keep working, wrapping the towel tight around Malcolm's arm, nearly sobbing as it soaks through with crimson almost as soon as it's on.

There's really no question as to what happened. The steak knife next to Malcolm's hip makes things pretty damn clear. What he doesn't understand is why. If things were so bad, why didn't Malcolm come talk to him, to _anyone_? He offers a prayer to every saint he knows that he's given the opportunity to ask the kid that tomorrow.

He rests Malcolm's left hand over his abdomen for a moment while he grabs the right, thankful to see a far more shallow laceration on that wrist. Once the towels are secured, he takes one arm in each hand — trying to ignore how tiny and frail they are in his grasp — and squeezes hard to try and stop the bleeding.

There's already so much blood.

"Malcolm?" Gil calls out, hoping against hope for some type of response. "Can you hear me? Come on, buddy, I need you to look at me."

Nothing. 

"Please, Mal." Gil's voice cracks under the strain but Malcolm's nose scrunches up at the plea, and for now, that's enough for Gil.

At least he's still there. Still hanging on. 

"Whatever it is, kid, we're gonna figure it out. I promise." Gil doesn't think he's ever made a vow that he'll take more seriously. Come hell or high water, he intends on seeing Malcolm through this.

He just needs to make sure Malcolm lives long enough to figure out what the hell _this_ is.

The sound of sirens pulling up to the house is music to his ears, and before he knows it he's handing the kid off to people who are trained to deal with these kinds of situations. They have Malcolm treated as best they can and wheel him to the waiting ambulance in less time than Gil would have expected, and he's left standing in the bathroom, looking down at the blood that's smeared and pooled and drying _everywhere_. The kid's blood, that's coating his hands and soaking through the fabric of his uniform.

He walks out of the bathroom in a daze, stopping in the hallway, suddenly unsure of just what to do next. He knows he needs to call Jess and fill her in on what happened, where they're taking him. He needs to change before he can follow Malcolm to the hospital, because showing up coated in blood isn't going to help anyone. He needs to call his partner and tell him he's not coming back to the precinct today and call Jackie to fill her in, too.

But as he leans back against the wall and slides down to the floor with a sob, he stares at the blood on the hardwood and the abandoned file next to the kitchen doorway. 

Right now, all he can do is thank God for forgotten paperwork and socked feet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks Kate, for the suggestions!


End file.
